Poetry: Hedy Habra
Fallen leaves gather all the way to my doorsteps and all over the deck, some beckoning for a touch. The slightest breeze uncovers new colors. I step over them, they’re still warm inside, won’t break under pressure, yet sing a song of longing to the abandoned branches once heavy with birds’ nests filled with fluttering fledglings; their silent song, a score of a thousand shades, spotted or tainted as though dipped into a watercolor wash, the way paint bleeds over silk paper.
